


thou wast never alone

by Bricker



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, Plane Crash AU, colonel sousuke, pilot makoto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 16:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16857262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bricker/pseuds/Bricker
Summary: Tachibana must feel him looking. He turns to meet his gaze. He doesn’t seem surprised to find himself being watched, and Sousuke doesn’t flinch away from him either. It’s a surreal, misplaced moment. Sousuke feels something like fear, but not fear of their circumstances. That horrible, deeply disturbing fear of existence that strikes and rings through one’s entire being every now and again. He’s unsettled by it’s presence, here of all places.





	thou wast never alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkphoenix168](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkphoenix168/gifts).



> A belated addition to the Makoto Birthday Exchange! For darkphoenix168 <3

It’s the pilot’s cries of pain that rouse Sousuke. 

They cut through the fuzzy throbbing in his head, sharp and pleading. There are moments of quiet in between, moments when the pilot struggles to catch his breath. The air is webbed with wet gasps that pad the silence. Then there’s a mighty creak of metal, and the pilot cries out again. 

As Sousuke peels himself from the embrace of sleep, the muddled sounds the pilot makes become clearer. The pain does too. It hits him like a bolt of lightning, snaking and pulsing through him when he shifts. He bites back a wail of surprised agony. Even suppressing the sound sends another wave of it through him.

“Hello? Help me, God please,” the pilot pleads in the seat in front of him. He hisses, and another string of words fall from his mouth, but in a language Sousuke doesn’t understand. “Please help. Are you alive? Can you hear me?” 

“Yes,” Sousuke croaks. The single word feels like a shard of glass in his mouth. 

“Please help me. My legs - the front of the plane’s been crushed, I can’t get my-” There’s another creak of metal, and the pilot releases a sob. “Please, I can’t hold it up much longer.” 

Sousuke blinks his eyes open for the first time and forces himself to sit up. All he can see of the pilot is the back of his seat. The metal plating of the plane around them is dented and convex, audibly aching in harmony with the pilot. The control panel up front is crumpled forward like cardboard. Loose sparks jump from it’s lifeless panels, and upon closer inspection, the only thing keeping the entire thing from caving in are the pilots hands holding the edge up. 

His knuckles are white with the effort, his arms taut. Even so, the control panel hovers and jerks perilously over the pilot’s thighs. His pant legs are already torn and stained with blood from not catching the metal in time. 

“Holy shit,” Sousuke says. “Fuck, hold on. Hold on.” 

The pilot jerks his head up and down in a nod as Sousuke fumbles over the clips of his safety straps. Once he’s free, he bunches his legs beneath him and stands as straight as the cramped cockpit will allow. The plane groans at the movement, and the pilot whimpers. Dark spots cloud Sousuke’s vision as he squeezes himself around the pilot’s seat. There’s little space to work with - what space was available before is now completely occupied by the collapsed controls - but somehow he manages it. 

“Please, just hold it up for a second,” the pilot says. “I need to get my legs out from under.” 

“Yeah,” Sousuke agrees mindlessly. He fixes his stance, hooking his ankles around the edges of the pilot’s seat,and grips the overhanging edge of the control panel. The pilot’s arms sag with relief. The sudden weight makes Sousuke hiss and gasp. His vision goes white for a moment as pain shoots through him. When it clears, the pilot is unstrapping himself from his seat and scrambling to get his legs free. 

“Hold it,” he says. Sousuke has no choice but to obey. “Turn your face down.” 

“Wh-” 

Something hisses above him; the windshield. The pilot’s managed to open it. Debris showers them. Sousuke doesn’t have time to think much of it before the pilot is gripping his arm harshly and wrenching him back and up. The control panel collapses without Sousuke’s support. It’s impact makes a loud crash, and the rest of the plane quakes menacingly. 

The pilot doesn’t waste time. He man-handles Sousuke out of the cockpit, and they both slide over the outer curvature of the plane. Sousuke lands feet-first on sandy rock, stumbles, and falls sideways. The collision sends a fresh wave of agony over a settling ache. The pilot falls to the ground beside him. He rolls over onto his back with a hiss, muttering something in his native language. His tone alone pretty accurately encapsulates how Sousuke feels. 

“Fuck,” Sousuke breathes. He lets himself slump against the hot, rocky ground as he catches his breath. A dry wind tickles his hair and sand stirs around his form. “Where are we?”

The pilot doesn’t respond. He’s still for a beat, before one arm lifts to pry his helmet off his head. It clunks when he drops it. Cinnamon hair clings to his forehead and falls back to blend with the sand. Sousuke scowls at his profile. 

“Hey,” he says. The intended edge in his voice is weathered by exhaustion. He doesn’t bother finishing the thought, and instead marvels at how soothing silence is on his throat. 

A cloud mercilessly obstructs the harsh sun. Or maybe it’s the smoke rising from the demolished plane. One of the two. Sousuke doesn’t have the energy to look up and check. 

The tranquility is disrupted by the pilot. He sits up with a pained whine, tugging his torn leather gloves off with his teeth. Once his hands are free he peels back the blood-stained fabric of his pant legs. Sousuke watches him hiss and huff as he rips the fabric open to let the wounds breathe. 

Sousuke undoubtedly has a few massive bruises of his own to check in on. It’s hard to tell, sprawled out and submissive to any incoming pain like this, but he doesn’t think anything’s broken. He Might be a tad concussed, but after his time in the field, that’s not really new. He’s had worse. 

The plane gives a groan a few steps away, as if agreeing. Not bad for a plane crash. 

Plane crash. Private flight. Military compound. Classified information.

Shit. 

He sits up abruptly, so abruptly that he gets dizzy and almost collapses again. He gives himself a frantic pat-down, pain taking a backseat to terrible dread when his pockets come up empty. It isn’t until his pinkie graze something in the last pouch that he lets himself breathe again. 

His fingers curl tenderly around the portscreen as he draws it out. The little transparent square, corners capped with silver, looks relatively unharmed. It sits in his palm as hopeful and innocent as an inanimate object can be. Just to check, he taps the bottom left silver cap. A holographic screen and keyboard pops to attention in front of his face.

“Christ,” he sighs in relief. The holograms disappear again when he gives it another tap. He brings it close to him and breathes. 

The portscreen is undamaged. All the information on it is secure. It’s enough to make a grown, recently stranded man cry. 

“A portscreen,” the pilot observes. He gives a little nod of recognition. “That’s where you’re keeping the information that needed transporting. Is it alright?” 

Sousuke returns the card previously dealt and doesn’t respond. Instead, his gaze is drawn to the smoldering plane a meter or two away from them. It’s nose is completely smashed in, as is the belly of it. One of the wings is charred and weakly smoldering from the strike that brought them down. The rest doesn’t look so bad, but there’s no doubt - it’s beyond hope of saving. Not that Sousuke would know how to save it anyways. 

The rest of their surroundings is barren. Dry, sandy rock stretches in all directions, dotted with wiry bushes. Mountains murmur across the horizon from the direction they came from. Wind and clouds slinking across the landscape are the only observable habitants. 

Sousuke tightens his grip around the portscreen as a new breed of panic sets in. 

“Where are we?” he asks again. 

“I don’t know,” the pilot says. “Not exactly, anyway. Nowhere good.” 

“We’re in Soufuukan territory, aren’t we.” 

His silence is telling.

“The plane that shot us down,” Sousuke starts, “Looking for us?” 

“There’s a good chance. They grazed us before that mountain ridge. I flew through the peaks to lose them, and managed to glide the rest of the way. We’re lucky the terrain leveled out.” 

“I was told you could transport me safely,” Sousuke snaps, harsh enough to surprise even himself. The anger in his voice is thinly veiled panic, but he can’t find it in himself to fight it. Not this shit. He can’t afford this shit right now. “Your superior officer said you could be trusted with this.” 

The pilot blinks in alarm. “E-excuse me? I can assure you that I-” 

Sousuke bares his teeth in a snarl. “We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere!” 

The plane whines, and the pilot flinches. 

“I did the best I could,” he says. 

“Well it obviously wasn’t enough.” 

It’s too much. The dust, the wind, the smoke. The pilot’s conflicted, open, stupid face. It’s suffocating him. He grits his teeth and forces himself to stand. His body screams and his vision goes dark. He sways on his feet but doesn’t fall. The pilot looks up at him. There’s dust on his cheeks, blood on his hands, and wariness in his eyes. The sight of him is sickening. 

“This portscreen,” Sousuke says menacingly, holding the little glimmering screen up, “has extremely important information on it. Information that could save my country. Your country. And now it’s here, in enemy territory.” He sneers. “This is your best?” 

The pilot’s clouded expression clears into a decisive frown. “That portscreen,” he says in a clear imitation of Sousuke, altered accent and all, “would be destroyed if I hadn’t kept us from crashing. Or worse - Soufuukan troops would’ve taken it from your corpse, and whatever information it has on it would’ve been in enemy hands. So yes. This is my best.” 

Sousuke searches for something to say to that. Finding nothing worthy of voicing, he clicks his tongue irritably and slips the portscreen back into his pocket. A cool wind touches his neck, and he turns to it. Behind him, there is only more weeds and rock. The earthy, sweet smell of wild sage soothes the childish anger in him. 

He can’t stay here. The portscreen is secure, that much is true. If it’s to stay that way, Sousuke needs to get out of enemy territory fast. 

More immediately, he needs to get away from this plane fast. The smoke will give them away to any passing planes, if it hasn’t already. 

“What’s your name?” Sousuke asks the horizon. 

The pilot responds behind him. “My pilot calling name is Orca 018.” 

“No. Your given name.” 

There’s a pause. “I’m not keen on handing it out to every Sano official I encounter.” 

Sousuke turns to look at him. “Well, I’m not going to bother remembering your calling name. Tell me your given name or risk being called Whale-Whatever the rest of the way.” 

The pilot lifts his eyebrows. “You’re not leaving me behind?” 

“I would if I could, but your wounds aren’t bad. You can walk enough to follow me for however long you last. You also have a much better idea of where we are than I do.” He narrows his eyes. “Name.” 

“Tachibana,” the pilot admits. “Makoto Tachibana.” 

“You can call me Colonel Yamazaki.” 

Tachibana gives him an unimpressed look. “I’m not from Sano. You’re no superior of mine.” 

Jesus, this kid. “Back on your country’s military compound, you would’ve been expected to call me colonel, regardless of origin.”

“And you would’ve been expected to call me Ace Orca 018. Either way, I’m not your subordinate.” Grunting, Tachibana stands. “It’s fine if you want to blame me for being stranded. I won’t object to it again. But if I really am accompanying you through Soufuukan territory, it’ll be as an equal.” 

Sousuke sets his jaw, annoyed. “An equal, huh? Cute, but idiotic. I have an assignment. If you collapse or slow me down, I’m leaving you to die like a dog.” 

“If you’re telling the truth about that portscreen, I’d do the same,” Tachibana says without skipping a beat. “And, in the case that you’re the weaker link of the two of us, I’d expect you’d want me to go on with the portscreen?” 

Sousuke scoffs. “Yeah, okay. If I’m the weaker link, you can take the portscreen.” 

Tachibana ignores the sarcasm in his voice and nods resolutely. “Equal.” 

\---

They stay only long enough to grab an emergency pack that survived the crash. 

There were two; one under each seat. The pack under Tachibana’s was crushed by the control panel when Sousuke dropped it, leaving them with only one. It’s a loss they’ll undoubtedly feel soon. When dissected, the pack is stuffed with tarp material, stiff blankets fabric, slender water canteens, medical supplies, and packaged dry food, but it’s still a ruthlessly small amount for two full grown men. 

Sousuke’s tempted to take it for himself and abandon Tachibana when his back is turned. Getting the portscreen safely to the Sano border is the glaring priority after all. He’s not going to achieve that by sharing. 

Tachibana seems to sense this though. After they examine the contents, he zips it up and shoulders it defiantly before Sousuke can say anything. His gaze is even when Sousuke looks at him with a sneer. A challenge, then. Tachibana’s daring him to fight him for the pack. With his wounds, Sousuke doesn’t doubt that he could overpower him. It might cost him a few new wounds of his own, though. Sousuke decides it isn’t worth it and lets Tachibana hold onto the bag, for now. 

“We came from the peaks,” Tachibana says, nodding to the stretch of mountains behind them. He faces the horizon and points, just south of where the sun will set. “Due East is where we need to go. There’s a Soufuukan settlement just along the nearest border. We should hit it if we keep on track.” 

“We’ll travel by day then,” Sousuke concludes. “It’s cool enough that we should be able to without risk anyways.” 

“I don’t know. Heat exhaustion is always a risk w-” 

“We’ll be fine,” he snaps. He starts walking, not waiting to see if Tachibana follows. “Besides, with these winds and our limited supplies, we won’t have much of a choice. Fucking freeze to death if you want, it’s your prerogative.” 

Tachibana has no response to this. He limps after, and Sousuke rolls his eyes at the horizon. He bets himself that Tachibana won’t go a full two hours carrying that emergency pack, not with his injuries. They’re not terrible, but over time and with a weight on his back, Tachibana is in for an agonizing trek. It will be impressive if he goes a full twenty-four hours without resorting himself to a heap on the ground.

He holds out well at first, as predicted. A few paces behind, consistently. He stops to rest when Sousuke does. Sousuke watches him check his wounds as he takes a conservative drink. He's off again, and Tachibana follows a little less steadily, like an old dog. But he's always there when Sousuke looks back, if not following then just pausing to catch his breath or shift the bag from one shoulder to the other. He starts truly stopping as the sun begins to dip. But every time Sousuke prepares to double back and take the bag from him and officially leave him behind, he's up again. 

It's fucking annoying. Tachibana is not making the process of ditching him easy, nor is he truly keeping up. It’s just the right amount of slowing him down to get away with it.

Night falls terribly slowly, which is good for extra time walking and setting up camp. Sousuke takes the bag from Tachibana and empties it of the tarp, blankets, and matches. Tachibana looks ready to check out at this point, but he doesn’t protest to the tasks Sousuke gives him. 

The night winds really pick up just as they’re finishing. The chances of enemy planes spotting them is too great to settle for a quick firepit. Sousuke grudgingly digs out a dakota pit with his knife to mask the light and smoke. His wrist and neck ache with the effort, but by the time he looks up Tachibana has fashioned an acceptable lean-to. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Sousuke says. Tachibana, too worn to truly protest, uses the blankets as best as he can to get comfortable. 

The night deepens, and they’re alone. 

Tachibana’s attractive. Now that Sousuke can stand to look at him without being awash with frustration and resentment, he will admit it. The faint touch of firelight along his features cuts through the blood and grime, lining high cheekbones and full lips. His exposed forearms and collarbone confirm that the body under his uniform is toned; the breadth of his chest is no delusion. His throat is smooth, fluttering with any swallow or tick of his jaw. 

Sousuke briefly imagines touching his lips to that throat. There is fragility there, vulnerable life that, in some other world, Sousuke can see himself worshipping through touch. He wonders if there’s a world where Tachibana would let him. 

It doesn’t matter. In this world, the delicacy of Tachibana’s throat is what could make his death quicker and cleaner. He wouldn’t even have time to process the pain and wake up from it. With his carotid artery and jugular severed, his brain would immediately begin shutting down. It would take thirty seconds to a minute for him to bleed out, and then it would be over, and Sousuke would have enough supplies to himself and the portscreen to last a couple extra days. 

It’s a harrowing thought, a stray impulse, but the impending dreams of war and death are already flickering behind Sousuke’s eyes. He will sleep soon, and the vile taste already seated on his tongue will flood him for however long he’s under. The portscreen sits heavy in his pocket. The weight of its importance is suffocating. He shivers violently just thinking about the consequences surrounding it’s destruction. There are miles between them and where it is safe, where Sousuke can sleep easier, but more immediately, there is this pilot. 

Sousuke unsheathes his knife and moves steadily closer, flipping the knife in his hand expertly. He’s killed plenty of times, but never a citizen of an ally state, and certainly never when his target couldn’t defend himself. There is an intimacy to this situation that makes his skin crawl. It’s quiet and warm, just the two of them. Nothing like the battlefront. When it’s over, there will be nowhere to run, no squadron to follow. Sousuke will have to face the slack features of the innocent pilot he’s killed. 

He doesn’t know if he can. Does that make him a coward? Or a decent fucking human being? 

Tachibana’s eyes open, and Sousuke chokes. 

His own shock is all Tachibana needs to wrench the knife from his hands and shove him back. Sousuke hits the ground hard. He doesn’t have time to so much as grunt before Makoto is straddling him, knees barring his sides and the knife pulled flush against his neck. Sousuke’s head spins with this sudden shift. 

His arms are free. He could hit Tachibana on the thigh, take advantage of his injuries. Learned instinct nearly makes him, but the unpredictable edge of the knife teasing his skin is incentive enough to keep still. Any sudden move from either of them could end it. 

He meets Tachibana’s gaze above him; those green eyes are alight, explosive with adrenaline. His breath is short through his nose despite the steadiness of the hand holding the knife. Sousuke can do nothing but stare wide as instinct fades and a dark and tightening terror takes it’s seat. 

The blade doesn’t cut. It doesn’t even burn. After just a moment it’s gone, cast away into the sand. Sousuke hasn’t even heard it land before Tachibana grips his jaw, fingers digging into his face and palm heavy against his throat. It’s a punishing grasp, bordering on a strangle, but no knife. Sousuke exhales unsteadily, just confident enough to inhale after it. He meets Tachibana’s eyes because Tachibana makes him, angling his face roughly. 

“Try again, and I will kill you,” Tachibana tells him. The softness of it unnerves Sousuke like a growl or a bark couldn’t. Tachibana narrows his eyes and says something else, something in his native tongue. Sousuke recognizes the sound of it; a common phrase. One of the few he knows. May God forgive. 

Tachibana releases him. He climbs off and settles where he laid before, as if nothing happened. 

Sousuke stays where he is until he’s breathing evenly again. The stars are just as cold looking down on him. 

\---

Morning comes, and they don’t speak of it. 

Sousuke collects his knife from the ground, sheaths it, and takes the lead. 

“Other way,” Tachibana informs him. The first words since last night, and they make Sousuke burn with petty embarrassment as well as a deeper shame. He just clears his throat and walks in the right direction, the scuffle of Tachibana’s boots following behind. Sousuke can tell he’s still limping without having to look, but he doesn’t lag. 

It grows hot fast. The lively winds and occasional clouds are godsent, but don’t offer consistent relief. Sousuke shrugs his jacket off and ties it around his waist. The next time he glances back, Tachibana has unzipped the top half of his uniform and tied it loosely as well. Underneath he wears a black undershirt, an unfortunate color for the circumstances. 

Tachibana stops to rest less today. Whether it be genuine progress or just his pride, he holds his own. The sun’s movement gives them a vague idea of how long they’ve been walking, but the actual distance they’ve covered is debatable. Whatever it is, Sousuke feels marginally better about it. The nature of their situation is easier to handle now that he’s got some physical stress and a faint feeling of achievement to distract him. Even he knows the value of hope at times like these. 

The portscreen needs to be his focus.

He’s survived worse. Maybe nothing as fucking infuriating as this or as unpredictable as a foreign, easily awoken pilot with a knife, but worse. The war has not made a relenting man of him. 

“Again?” he grumbles when Tachibana stops, shortly after their last resting point. They’ve reached dusk, and Sousuke is in no hurry to dawdle when they have some light left.

“Only getting rocks out,” Tachibana says, bending to unlace his boot. “I’ll catch up.” 

Sousuke grunts dismissively and continues. When he doesn’t hear Tachibana’s uneven footsteps after a while, he pauses and looks back, a sharp retort on his lips. It dies there. 

Tachibana stands tall now, facing the sun, boots back on and pack shouldered again. The wind, newly chilled with twilight, works itself through his sandy hair. There is no trace of exhaustion in his posture; the only evidence of injury is the slashed, blood-stained fabric of his pant legs. He’s lovely again. It’s been an inconsistent thing, muddled by grime and sweat and Sousuke’s own anger, but it hits him squarely now. 

Tachibana must feel him looking. He turns to meet his gaze. He doesn’t seem surprised to find himself being watched, and Sousuke doesn’t flinch away from him either. 

It’s a surreal, misplaced moment. Sousuke feels something like fear, but not fear of their circumstances. That horrible, deeply disturbing fear of existence that strikes and rings through one’s entire being every now and again. He’s unsettled by it’s presence, here of all places.

Fear of death releases him momentarily, and fear of life takes hold. It’s a strange thing, and sharing it with Tachibana is even stranger. 

Maybe, in some other world, there would be some value in it. Some use. 

Sousuke turns back and keeps walking. 

\---

“I don’t know your first name.” 

Sousuke looks up from their pack at the soft words. They’re the first that either has spoken in hours. Tachibana has his back to him, redressing his wounds with ointment from the first aid kit. He doesn’t pause his ministrations for an answer, or look back at him. Sousuke briefly wonders if he imagined him saying anything at all. 

They’ve settled for the night, after another uneventful day of walking. Uneventful in the sense that the activity itself was very much the same. Eventful in regards to their water supply; they’re officially out. From now on, they’ll be playing it by ear. Water purifier tablets are only so much help when there’s no water to speak of. 

Tachibana just furrowed his brow and hummed when Sousuke angled the last empty canteen for him to see, a few hours ago. No reply. Actual words - and these specific words - are unexpected. 

“You forgot it,” Sousuke observes. 

“No. You actually never gave it,” Tachibana says. He twists the cap back onto the ointment. “‘You can call me Colonel Yamazaki.’ That’s how you introduced yourself.” 

Sousuke scoffs. “Does it matter?” 

“You were very insistent that I give you my name. It’s equal. And I was curious.” 

Fair enough. “It’s Sousuke.”

“Sousuke,” Tachibana echoes. His silvery accent makes it sound melodious. “That’s nice.” 

The compliment takes Sousuke off guard. “Mm. I forgot yours.” 

Tachibana looks back at him, amused. “You’re forthright. It’s Makoto.” 

“Makoto,” Sousuke says stiffly back, because it feels expected of him. 

“In my country, it’s usually a popular girl’s name.” He tucks the ointment away, unties the sleeves of his uniform from around his waist, and shrugs it back on. As if on cue, a cold wind ruffles them both. “I had to correct all of my commanding officers and tutors at the training academy.” 

“Must add another level of stress to dating,” Sousuke remarks. Tachibana gives him a curious look. “Y’know. Can’t mess around with someone with the same name as you.” 

“Ah.” Tachibana gives a single nod of clarity. “Never had that problem.” 

Sousuke’s interest piques at that. Does Tachibana mean he doesn’t mess around with women enough to have that issue? Probably not, but the thought still strikes him. It’s hardly the time for an Is-He-Or-Is-He-Not-Gay debate either way, but that’s never stopped him before. 

“I’d prefer Makoto,” Tachibana says. He pauses. “Well, I’d actually prefer my pilot calling name, but Makoto works better than Tachibana.” 

Sousuke gives him an irritated look. “I am not calling you Whale Something. We’ve fuckin’ established this.” 

“Then Makoto.” 

“Then Makoto,” he relents. 

“Sousuke or Yamazaki for you?” 

He sighs, going back to what he was doing. “Whatever the fuck you want.” 

“Okay.” Makoto gets to his feet, zipping the front of his uniform with an air of finality. “I’ll take first watch, Sousuke.” 

\---

Without water, they have to be careful. 

They head off early the next morning. As soon as the sun’s placement in the sky grows symmetrical with noon, they set up camp again and rest. They can’t afford to waste their bodies’ natural supply of water; travelling in the heat is the quickest way to ensure it. Once the winds are cold again and the ground cools, they continue walking. The sky has long since darkened by the time they settle for the night. The lack of distance they’ve covered gnaws at Sousuke, as does the thirst and hunger. He takes the portscreen out and runs his hands reverently along its edges frequently, in an effort to keep himself sharp. 

They’re not going to last like this. Whatever moisture their remaining food is giving them will not be enough. They probably have until noon tomorrow before the dangerous effects of dehydration set in. The discomfort they feel now is only the beginning. 

Neither of them gave a shit enough to build any sort of shelter. It leaves them vulnerable to the cold and any sort of wildlife, but they seem united on getting sleep as soon as possible. Sousuke attempts to keep watch, but not a half an hour has passed before he’s joined Makoto under the blankets. The proximity would be strange if Sousuke gave a single fuck. Makoto seems to share the sentiment. The shared body heat is actually appreciated. 

They’re back to back for a while. At some point, Sousuke’s aware of Makoto rolling, turning into him. His warm breath touches Sousuke’s nape. Sousuke comes to just long enough to make this observation before drifting off again. 

It’s still cold when Sousuke is woken up, and Makoto’s warm breath is gone.

“Sousuke.” Makoto shakes his arm. 

“What,” Sousuke growls, though whether or not it’s intelligible is up for debate. 

“Drink.” 

The cold metal of a canteen gently taps his chin. Still fuzzy with sleep, he doesn’t think twice about taking it from Makoto and bringing it to his lips. The water is gritty with the taste of dirt, but cold and pleasant on his sore throat. He empties the canteen, or is about to when he realizes what he’s doing. He holds the canteen away from himself and blinks at it in confusion, then at Makoto. 

“Where did you get this?” 

“There’s some sort of underground spring, maybe half a mile from here,” Makoto says. He’s visibly and newly alert, a stray streak of dried mud smeared across his cheek. Mud. Water. Sousuke sits up in a rush. “We would’ve completely missed it if we hadn’t stopped right here for the night.” 

“Jesus christ,” Sousuke says on a breathless laugh. “Oh, god. Thank god. A spring?” 

“Yes.” His relief is contagious. Makoto breaks into a smile that seems to surprise him more than it does Sousuke. He hesitates over it only briefly. “I had to dig it up, but yeah. I’ll show you. Help me pack up.” 

“How the fuck did you even find it?” 

Makoto doesn’t answer immediately. He busies himself with stuffing their things into the pack. “I, uh. I followed butterflies.” 

Sousuke stares. “What.” 

“I woke up a couple hours ago, and there was a little blue butterfly on one of the canteens. I’d recognized the species from survival training. They’re pretty common.” Makoto rubs the back of his neck, flustered. His hands, dark with mud from digging, leaves another mark on his skin. “I figured if there was common fauna, there had to be some sort of water source nearby. So I just followed it for a while.” 

“You followed a butterfly. A fucking butterfly showed you where the water was.” 

Makoto winces. “It sounds silly now, yeah. I figured it was as good a lead as any.” 

“Evidently it wasn’t a total waste,” Sousuke agrees. He rubs the bridge of his nose, uttering a humorless laugh. Fucking butterflies. “You should’ve woken me.” 

“I did. You rolled over and went right back to sleep.” 

“I- oh.” Sousuke frowns and looks away. “I don’t remember.” 

“I figured,” Makoto says. He stands and uses the side of his boot to push dirt over the edge of their firepit. “I didn’t want to lose sight of it, so I just went without you.” 

“You could’ve gotten lost. We could’ve been separated.” 

He lifts an eyebrow. “I would’ve thought you’d appreciate being rid of me, especially since I left you with all the supplies.”

“The mystery behind your sudden disappearance would be confusing and inconvenient,” Sousuke says, too rushed to be casual. Makoto makes a nice sound at his fumble, so nice it might just be a laugh. So nice that Sousuke’s embarrassment leaves fast and he allows an amused exhale of his own. In his defense, the hilarity of a butterfly being their salvation gave Makoto a head start. “The butterfly thing was risky.” 

“But it paid off,” Makoto points out. 

“I was getting to that,” he sighs. “And you shared the water with me. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” He gives no reason for why he did, when he didn’t have to. No explanation, no excuse, nothing to make it seem tactical. Nothing to bury the fact that he could’ve returned for the supplies and left while Sousuke was still asleep, but didn’t. He seems comfortable with his choice, and Sousuke is oddly touched. He doesn’t recall doing anything to deserve that sort of honesty. 

“Come on,” Makoto says. Sousuke obeys and stands. 

\---

With water, they’re able to maintain a more efficient walking routine. They return to their initial plan to walk when it’s light out and sleep at night, though Makoto’s convinced Sousuke to wake up while it’s still dim to catch any potentially nocturnal animals or insects around. 

They’ve abandoned setting up shelters at night and instead rely on each other’s warmth when the night winds blow through. Their two blankets are both designed to insulate efficiently, so often they don’t need to touch, even when the winds are stronger. Still, occasionally they’ll wake with their ankles hooked, their legs tangled, maybe a hand wedged under the other’s side. Sousuke especially grows to hesitate very little over it. Makoto still seems embarrassed when they wake up touching, but he makes no effort to distance them whenever they settle in for the night either. 

“The portscreen,” Makoto says, breaking another stretch of silence. They’ve stopped for a break. He says it absently, but a learned bolt of alarm goes through Sousuke and he pats his pocket to make sure it’s still there. 

Only after he feels it does he answer. “What about it?” 

“It’s important,” Makoto more states than asks. He looks to Sousuke’s pocket curiously. “You said it could save our countries?” 

Sousuke gives a hum of affirmation. “Information to change the course of the war.” 

“So, very important.” 

“Yes.” 

“And there are no other copies?” Makoto leans forward, elbows on his thighs, his canteen dangling precariously from the casual hold of his fingers. “No other databases? It’s not backed up at all?” 

“No. The compound of its origin was compromised. They couldn’t keep it on systems that could be accessed by outsiders. Even if it was, everything was destroyed before the compound was taken by the enemy. The portscreen is the only existing copy.” He sighs. “In case this wasn’t a bitch of a situation enough.” 

“But you came to our compound,” Makoto says, brow furrowing. “Our systems weren’t compromised. Before we took off, you could’ve duplicated the information and left a copy with my superiors.” 

“Why would I do that, if I had a copy myself?” 

“For insurance? We’re on the same team.” 

“Are we? Look, no offense, but you lot haven’t been the most consistent of allies. I’m not keen on trusting your country’s leaders with information this crucial when they were content with sitting back and letting the war sort itself out until recently.” 

He expects some sort of offended, patriotic retort in response, but Makoto just looks thoughtful at this. “So. You got on a plane with the only existing copy, and flew through enemy territory.” 

“I made a choice,” Sousuke huffs. “And it’s not over yet. We’re still alive, aren’t we? You’re hardly in a position to give me lip, by the by.” 

It’s not a fair complaint now, and even to himself, sounds tired and half-assed. Sousuke’s had the time to admit that to himself, but childish pride keeps him from burying the words with any sort of verbal apology or excuse. Makoto’s open judgement of him is hardly encouragement. 

Makoto is true to his word and doesn’t object to the thorny remark. He gives Sousuke a look of amusement instead. “We are still alive. And after you called me the weaker link.” 

Sousuke rolls his eyes. “Alright. That might have been an… inexact estimation.” 

“Is that Colonel Yamazaki’s version of a compliment?” 

“Ha. If I compliment you, you’ll know.” 

Makoto’s eyes crinkle with a smile. “I look forward to it.” 

“I said if,” Sousuke points out. “Don’t get your hopes up.” 

“Alright, alright.” He sits up, rubbing a sore neck. “Fair enough. There’s little point in a compliment shrouded with pride anyway. If it’s worthy of praise, why bother hiding?” 

“Mm. I think I might need an example.” 

Makoto arches an eyebrow at him. “Worthy of praise, are you?” 

“Hey, I said no lip.” 

“None at all? My version of praise might involve some lip.” 

Sousuke tries his luck and lets himself interpret that how he hopes Makoto means it. “Well, now I really need an example.”

“Then earn it,” Makoto says, just as easily. He stands and offers Sousuke a hand, which he takes. 

If Makoto’s goal was to distract him from their tired friction, it’s working. He enjoys Makoto’s presence; despite his snapping, he’s glad he’s not alone. The more stray moments of peace they find themselves in, the more he doubts any lingering animosity either of them might have. Their friction, like most variants of dissent, are circumstantial. He feels guilt for buying into it so easily. 

Makoto is admirable to have tolerated Sousuke’s frustration, both misdirected and otherwise. He is no martyr, but he’s been accepting of their situation and the consequences in Sousuke. If any anger burns for Makoto, he’s spared Sousuke of witnessing it. Maybe it’s an act of calming them both down, maybe it’s how he protects what’s vulnerable. Whatever it is, Sousuke sees a sort of nobility in it. 

“That night,” he says, while the remnants of an honest moment are still lingering. “That first night. When I pulled the knife on you.” 

Makoto looks surprised at Sousuke bringing it up. He’s seemed content with just letting it go unacknowledged, and until now, Sousuke very much was too. “Oh. What about it?”

“I wouldn’t have,” Sousuke tells him awkwardly. “I wouldn’t have killed you. Not that you would’ve made it easy either way, but still.” 

“Ah,” Makoto utters. “Well. Okay. Thank you?” 

“I was afraid, and it made me impulsive. So, yeah. I’m sorry.” 

He cracks a smile. “We’re in a ‘bitch of a situation,’ as you said. I haven’t dwelled on it. Something tells me we’ve both made harder decisions for the sake of an assignment.” 

Sousuke laughs hollowly. “Harder decisions. That’s a real nice way of putting it.” 

“A compilation of choices,” Makoto agrees. The ghost of a smile on his face turns sad. “That’s how we have to live.” 

“Maybe. That night, though. That choice. I wouldn’t have made it.” 

“I believe you,” he says. It’s a mercy Sousuke didn’t expect, or even knew he wanted. “Threat notwithstanding, you’ve had plenty of chances since.” 

“So have you,” Sousuke admits. "“I appreciate you resisting that particular urge.” 

He laughs, turning away to keep walking. “There’s still time. Let’s go.” 

Sousuke scoffs in shock, trailing him. “Well, Tachibana. Was that a threat?” 

“Just a reminder,” Makoto says agreeably. The look he gives Sousuke over his shoulder is so lush a green it’s immoral. Sousuke just makes a point of shaking his head dramatically before striding to fill the space between them. 

They walk side by side.


End file.
